


Stolen Pillows and Hot Soup

by a_taller_tale



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sickfic, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: Grif was always like this when he was sick. He was usually able to pull it together for Kai on the rare occasions she needed him to make soup and get medicine and shit. When it was just him, who gave a fuck? Apparently Simmons did.





	

Grif didn’t remember collapsing. He did remember coming back to consciousness with Donut and Simmons standing over him and Sarge ranting something about how useless Grif was, blah blah, what else is new. 

His head was still pounding so he didn’t try to get back up right away, and no one bothered to help him right away either. Typical.

He hadn’t been feeling great for a few days, but sometimes ignoring that kind of thing worked. And he had to work on coaxing Simmons back from Blue base, since no one else had been interested in doing it. Donut was as lazy as Grif when it came to chores and the dishes had started piling up immediately after Simmons defected and painted his armor Blue. They needed him.

The resulting shenanigans had him knocked out and shot like most of their plans did, which really didn’t help his cold. He woke up for the latest assault on the newly re-populated Blue base bleary and dizzy and feverish. 

He didn’t even make it a yard from Red base before he was facing the sky and his team, minus Sarge, were tilting their helmets down at him in concern. 

“Grif?” Simmons had a tentative note of panic in his voice, like he had been calling his name normally a couple times, and if Grif didn’t answer soon he would start freaking out. 

“M’up. What happened?” 

“You were sleeping on the job again!" Sarge bellowed. "Simmons, Donut, get this disgrace back to base. If he expires in front of the Blues, it might moralize them!”

That was almost caring coming from Sarge. Grif was able to stagger to his feet and Donut chattered happily about an afternoon assault having better light than first thing in the morning anyway, which was completely stupid, because the sun never fucking moved in this nightmare of a place. But still, a break was a break. 

Once he got to the room he shared with Simmons he was a little slow getting out of his armor and into something to sleep in. He kept spacing out. Fevers sucked. 

He was always like this when he was sick. He was usually able to pull it together for Kai on the rare occasions she needed him to make soup and get medicine and shit. When it was just him, who gave a fuck? 

Apparently Simmons did. 

The guy never stopped bitching, but the usual annoying pitch was drowned out by the pounding in Grif’s brain. 

When Grif tried to climb into his bed and just pull his blanket nest from the morning back over him, Simmons shoved him out of the way. “This is why you’re supposed to make your bed, Grif! You can’t just sleep on the bare mattress when you kicked off the fitted sheet! You’ll get your germs all over the mattress and re-infect yourself later.” 

Grif stood there stupidly as Simmons threw everything on the floor and then shook out the sheets. Jeez, the nerd was actually making his bed for him. His _mom_ never even made his bed for him. 

He leaned back against the wall so he didn’t have to hold himself up anymore, but folded his arms so he looked like he was being impatient instead of ready to collapse. “Any time now, Simmons.”

“Shut up. I have to be careful not to touch where you’ve drooled. I don’t want you getting me sick too.” Finally he was done, after smoothing down all the wrinkles, like Grif wasn’t going to get in it right now. “Okay, try not to kick around and fuck it all up.” 

“Sure, Simmons. I’ll make sure I don’t mess up the bed while I’m sleeping in it.” 

Grif could _feel_ that he was going to make another comment, but instead Simmons stomped off with a little growl to do whatever it is awkward gangly nerds do when their smarter comrades are napping. 

Grif stole Simmons’ pillow off the top bunk before crawling into his own. He punched it a few times to fluff it up, pulling it into his chest and settling into the bed. It was kind of nice having it all made, no weird rolling around under the blankets to make sure he was all covered. He was never telling Simmons that. Unless Grif could get him to make his bed every day.

Ugh, Simmons always made him think of the most horrifying domestic scenarios. Grif had no idea why he was in love with that asshole.

He was in a full doze when Simmons came back. 

“Why did you have to take my pillow? You _have_ one!”

Without opening his eyes, Grif rubbed his running nose in it. “You want it back?” 

“Ugh, no. I’ll borrow one of Donut’s. He has like fifty. Don’t ask me how. –Grif, wake up and sit up.” 

Grif groaned miserably and opened one eye.

Simmons was tapping his foot, helmet aside somewhere so Grif could see his freckle-speckled face. Speckled Dick. That was some kind of dessert, right?

He was holding a tray. “You brought me food?” 

“It’s soup. When people are sick, they’re supposed to eat. Feed a fever, starve a cold? Don’t you know anything?” 

Not really. One time Kai had a fever of 103 for days and the ER kept sending them home because they couldn’t afford to stay in the hospital. Luckily Tylenol eventually worked. No, he had no fucking idea what he was doing. 

Simmons balanced the tray in one hand so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “Sit up!” 

The room tilted a little after he was upright, but Grif managed it, hiding Simmons’ pillow behind his own so he couldn’t try to steal it back.

Simmons placed Donut’s fancy silver tray in Grif’s lap once he was settled. There was chicken soup, a tall glass of cold water, and a single red rose in a delicate glass vase. 

“I thought we were out of water.” 

“Don’t be stupid. Sarge just told you that out of the hope that you’d die from dehydration.”

Grif’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh. Figures.” 

“The rose is from Donut. I wouldn’t give you a rose. Obviously.” 

“Pft. I know.” And Simmons called _him_ insecure.

Simmons chewed on his bottom lip. “I made the soup though.” 

Oh great, he was waiting for praise. It was probably the fever making him take pity on Simmons, but he had made his bed and gotten him soup. Grif grabbed the spoon and shoved a big spoonful of carrots and chicken and noodles into his mouth. “Fuck! It’s hot!”

“It’s soup, idiot. It’s supposed to be hot!” Simmons got this dumb hurt look on his face, like the soup being too hot meant Grif didn’t like it. 

“It’s not bad," Grif said.

Simmons brightened and Grif threw another bite of scalding soup in his mouth so he didn’t look mushy back. 

“Sarge commanded me to tell you he hopes you die in your sleep," Simmons said. 

“Aw, that’s so nice." 

Simmons sat next to him while he ate, like that was normal, and Grif still felt shitty so he didn’t comment on it like he normally might to watch him get flustered. It was kind of nice just sitting together, not even talking…

“Are you actually falling asleep while _eating_? Jeez, you really are sick.” 

Grif blinked awake, but Simmons was already plucking the spoon from his hand and setting the tray aside on their shared desk. It was standard in their rooms, but only Simmons really used it. Sometimes Grif would watch him typing up reports late into the night, giving 120% to a war effort that gave less than zero fucks about them. Reports that only Simmons would ever read, and the guy was at least smart enough that he was starting to realize that after almost three years, but he kept doing them anyway. 

Grif startled when he felt cold metal fingers against his forehead, but it was just Simmons again. After a few seconds, his cyborg pointer finger beeped. 

“101.6,” he sighed. “Hot, but not dangerously high.” 

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Grif said. 

Simmons shrugged. “Donut insists it’s more effective as a rectal thermometer.” 

“No thanks.” 

Simmons got that pleased little smile on his face, like the first of many times he realized he and Grif had an inside joke. Like he’d never had one with anyone else before. Probably hadn’t. Nerd. 

Grif realized he was smirking back and shut that right down. “I’m gonna take a nap.” 

“Predictable,” Simmons said without any annoyance, he sounded almost affectionate. 

That was definitely the fever warping reality, but it was good to have Simmons home and not having some kind of dumb identity crisis with the Blues. 

“Hey, it's good you’re back. Blue’s not your color.” 

As if following an order Grif hadn’t meant to give, Simmons’ face went bright red. 

It looked good on him. 

“Shut up," Simmons said. "We’re not talking about that ever again. Go to sleep or something.”


End file.
